


From Ushant to Scilly, 'Tis Thirty-Five Leagues

by Dancains



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: AU where the carnival doesn't burn down, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Just two sailor boys being mushy and romantic in the arctic tundra, M/M, possibly implied Fitzjames/Crozier but not enough to warrant the tag, set during Episode 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 08:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18007256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: "I can't say I'm surprised you didn't try for much of a costume, Lieutenant. We can't let the crew in on the fact that you reallydohave a sense of humour, no matter the great pains you take to conceal it."Little glanced about, as if to check that they were not within any man's earshot, and said in a low, honeyed voice, "I apologize, Mr. Jopson, for not being appropriately costumed, especially when you yourself have come to us mere mortals guised as an angel. Though, unlike Lieutenant Irving, you have no need for paper wings."





	From Ushant to Scilly, 'Tis Thirty-Five Leagues

**Author's Note:**

> My first Terror fic! I've become obsessed with this pairing, and after rewatching this episode I decided they deserved a little respite from their duties. As for the title song, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-FqDoK9aQk) is my favorte version of it, linked for your listening pleasure :)

His captain's determination to leave the ship and trek out to Commander Fitzjames' _carnivale_ was certainly a shock, but as he aided Crozier in donning his cold-weather slops, Jopson tried to convince himself it was a turn for the better, and one which now marked the end of his extra duties as sick nurse. 

It was not that he minded caring for Crozier--quite the opposite in fact, he considered it an honor that Crozier trusted him enough to let Jopson see him at his lowest and most vulnerable--but it seemed that these last few weeks of his illness were the tepid calm before an oncoming storm. Jopson himself felt almost as if he had been lulled into a trance by the careful rhythms of mopping his captain's brow and cleaning his sick-soiled linens, a trance which he was now suddenly awoken from by the sting of frigid-cold air and flecks of snow, as they emerged from _Terror_ 's depths. 

The half-mile journey was slow and halting, but he was glad that Crozier's steps seemed steady, and his manner far more lucid than it had been for some time. His regular duties as steward, Jopson reflected, rarely required this level of exertion, and despite being in adequate physical condition, he soon felt beads of cold sweat gathering under his many layers of wool.

The carnival tent proved to be a strange, bewitching sight as they tentatively approached its threshold--a glowing beacon of light and activity dotting the otherwise clean expanse of ice, its seeping colors rivaled only by the shimming blue-green aurora in the night sky above.

'How'd they manage all this?" Jopson couldn't help but marvel aloud, after they had passed through the canvas flaps and into a disorienting maze of netting and crates masquerading as garden hedges and decorated with intricate cloth flowers. It was difficult to conceive that all of this had been lying in wait, stored deep in the hull of the sleeping ship all this time.The steady rumble of mens' voices and the jaunty tune of a fiddle, somewhere deeper in the heart of the great construction, led them forward. 

_"Oh! Hampstead is the place to ruralize, ri-ti-turalize,_  
_Extramuralize, Hampstead is the place to ruralize  
_ _On a summer’s day-"_

Another threshold brought them into the main hub of activity, where a large crowd of the men drank and laughed and loudly socialized, nearly half of them decked out in exotic costumes, and all of them in a seemingly jovial mood. It was Lietuennt Irving's voice that he hadn't immediately recognized, crooning along to the makeshift band while garbed in the long skirt and halo of a slightly drunken angel.

Jopson watched his captain's face cringe, as if he was experiencing the first pangs of another head-ache, knowing the strong stench of ale that permeated the tent was probably near to turning Corzier's stomach.

"Captain," Jopson addressed him with a gentle hand to his elbow. Crozier steadied himself. They made their way through the knot of bodies to where Mr. Blanky was drinking from his wooden leg, and Jopson found himself heartened by the sight of Crozier embracing his old companion. 

The sound of a gunshot in a different part of the tent alerted Crozier's attention just a moment later, and he and Jopson followed the noise to where even more of the crew were seemingly partaking in a mock horse race. As they peered upon this new event, the crowd cheered uproariously, and Commander Fitzjames was hauled up onto the shoulders of the men and carried across the flag-festooned track, grinning and pumping his first in victory. 

Some part of Jopson thought that the Roman-esque finery of Britannia suited Fitzjames, and that through a slight stretch of the imagination, his long-winded tales of military conquest told over endless dinners could easily be those of ancient times in the stead of their modern era. Even though Crozier wouldn't have conceded to it, even in better health, Jopson could imagine him bedecked in the violet robes and laurel wreath of a Roman emperor, if only to complete the whimsical tableau.

Fitzjames paled as the spectacle made its way past Crozier and Jopson, suddenly looking as if he was face to face with some terrible ghost or phantasm the moment he locked eyes with _Terror's_ captain. Clearly, Crozier's attendance had been the last thing he expected. 

Just as quickly, Fitzjames was transported away, and the pair of them made their retreat through a smokey, improvised kitchen, where vats of their usual Goldner's tin fare were simmering. Ale sloshed and spilled down Crozier's front as a drunken, horse-masked crewman abruptly collided with him. Without hesitation Jopson stepped in to hold him away at arm's length, while the man only greeted them with a slurred question: "Are we going, then, Sir? The men are saying--"

It was a welcome relief when Lieutenant Little-- _Edward,_ Jospon's mind amended warmly, stepped in to intervene, stoic as usual though now with the exception of a festive paper hat atop his welsh wig.

"Sir! Step back, Mr. Reid." At his insistence, the ice master abated.

Removing his hat as if in embarrassment, Little trailed a short distance behind Jopson and Crozier as they journeyed deeper into the bizarre revelries. Jopson glanced over his shoulder, exchanging a wordless glance with Little, confusion and concern briefly written across his features.

Crozier paused at the sight of the vegetative Mr. Heather, propped up in one corner as another seaman gently spoon-fed him, his mass of mangled skull shielded by a crown. The captain looked white as a sheet, sweat glistening at his temple. Maybe this had been a poor idea. A very poor idea.

"Let me take you back, Sir." Jopson requested, kindly but still firm. "Sir?"

Crozier brushed him off, wandering passed another set of tent flaps to find a massive cauldron over a flame, two men bathing in the heated water inside, the entire scene cast in an eerie blue glow from the light of a paper-lined lantern. It was enough to make a sober man feel drunk.

"Is that the captain?" Jospon heard one of the bathers mutter to his companion, no doubt dazed by the heat.

"Come out of that pot. get dressed," said Crozier, his voice distant and strained. "I'm ending this now."

Fitzjames was behind them, helmet tucked beneath his arm. "Francis, this was my idea. All of it...to get the men ready." He stepped in Crozier's way, impeding his return to the main chamber. "I see now," he continued, "I...I should have been more vigilant."

"Ready?" Crozier rasped. 

Fitzjames presses in closer, voice low for only the captain's ear. "To walk out."

Crozier nodded, deliberating. Jopson glanced curiously from one man to the other, while the captain gradually seemed to soften and relent under his second's gaze. Finally, he yielded. "Another hour. I'll give them another hour of...all this. Then we will gather the men, James. They deserve to know."

"Of course. Thank you."

Crozier turned to Jopson, something like a paternal smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I'm grateful for you escorting me here, Jopson, but I don't need to be watched over like an infant. I'm going to sit with Mr. Blanky and try to enjoy the music." He clapped a hand on Jopson's shoulder, "Go and enjoy yourself a while, catch up with some of your mates. God knows you deserve it."

"But, Sir-"

"Go on, Thomas."

Jopson exhaled, nodding. He could tell from the look in his captain's eyes that he wouldn't relasp and return to drink, especially considering all the miseries he had just gone through. If anyone could brave temptation, it was Crozier.

As he watched Crozier trudge over to Blanky, something solid brushed at Jopson's side. Little had seemingly materialized out of nothing, and was now standing shoulder to shoulder with Jopson. The steward smiled. 

"I can't say I'm surprised you didn't try for much of a costume, Lieutenant. We can't let the crew in on the fact that you really _do_ have a sense of humour, no matter the great pains you take to conceal it."

Little let out a huff of warm air, the lines about his eyes crinkling in mirth. It was a fine look to see painted on the man's face, and so rare that Jopson wished he could sketch well enough to record it to paper. 

He missed being in Little's company, regardless of the fact they were far from alone right now. Even if his round-the-clock job nursing Crozier had kept them temporarily apart, Jopson had gauged from the brief, searching glances shared over half-eaten Goldner's tins, and the seemingly accidental brushing of shoulders in the officer's corridor, that Little had been as concerned for Jopson's well-being as the captain's. Jopson was sure that Little's own expanded responsibilities as the next highest ranking man on _Terror_ were a burden on him as well.

Little glanced about, as if to check that they were not within any man's earshot, and said in a low, honeyed voice, "I apologize, Mr. Jopson, for not being appropriately costumed, especially when you yourself have come to us mere mortals guised as an angel. Though, unlike Lieutenant Irving, you have no need for paper wings."

Jopson felt himself go weak at the knees. He usually prided himself on being steady and unfaltering in any situation presented to him--the absolute face of professionalism--but just a few choice words from Edward Little were enough to bring him undone. To think that someone like Little, an officer and a gentleman, and such an honorable one at that, would say such a thing to him.

"Edward," he breathed, and it was if some hitherto unknown weight was lifted from his shoulders. It was possible that the weight had been lifted for both of them; Atlas finally unburdened at the edge of the world.

Little looked down at the stone-pebbled ground, as if made sheepish by his own uncharacteristic declaration. His thick brows were creased in the middle and his face was flushed with colour about the cheeks and nose, either from the warmth of the tent or perhaps the consumption of spirits.

"Could I, perhaps, fetch you a drink, or something to eat?" Little seemed to cringe as soon as the words left his own mouth. He was one of the few onboard who knew the full truth of Crozier's malady, and, by extension, that a mug of ale was probably the last thing Jopson desired.

"We just had supper on the ship. Some water, though, would be welcome, if there's any to be had." Privately, he wondered if Little's mouth tasted of ale, or perhaps even of the remaining gin or rum to which the officers had access. Jopson decided that, if he were to taste the sting of liquor from Edward's lips--and Edward's lips alone, he would not recoil, but instead savor it.

Wordlessly, Little left and soon reappeared with a tin cup of drinking water from one of the cooks. The bare tips of his fingers brushed Jopson's as he passed it over, along with a sensation almost like electric shock. Jopson drank from the cup as if it were Christ's own chalice, the cool water a soothing balm to the dryness of his throat. 

It struck him how even this small gesture was a dramatic reversal of their usual duties, and a significant one coming from a man usually so chained to his rank. Perhaps, instead of hiding themselves in the carnival's masquerade, their own masquerade was quietly falling away, revealing their truth.

"Is there anything else you'd like?" Little inquired, once Jopson's thirst was quenched.

The steward gazed at the thick crowd around them, only then realizing how hot and cloying it was to be standing in their midst, still in his full winter slops. He could see a hint of sweat at Little's chin, as well.

"Would you like to step out for a moment?" Jopson ventured, "to look at the night sky."

Little's liquid-dark eyes were difficult to read as he studied Jopson. "Yes. Yes, it's rather...stifling, here inside." 

Almost in unison, they both glanced to Crozier, who had sat down on a bench near Mr. Blanky, and was now apparently lost in conversation with Commander Fitzjames. No doubt he was well looked after.

Jopson helped Little into his overcoat, which had been left in a pile on a table near the door, before they weaved between the constructed hedges and finally out into the snow covered landscape.

"May I-" Little paused before linking Jopson's arm with his own, their bodies pressed close in the cold. 

Jopson grinned. "We could merely be taking a stroll in Hyde Park, if I didn't know better."

A wide, genuine smile came across Little's face. Jopson thought that he had missed the sight even more than that of the rising sun, as fanciful as the notion was. Tonight he would receive both gifts.

They wandered, almost aimlessly, around the circumference of the tent, with little need for words. Looking out into the endless stretch of grey ice that went long beyond the edge of the horizon, it struck Jopson just how infinitely far they were from everything familiar to them. How extraordinary, that they were having a party in the middle of this vast nothingness.

On the far side of the tent sat a single wooden crate, evidently forgotten or unnecessary, with a fine dusting of snow. Little brushed it off as well he could for them to sit. With their backs to the carnivale, their view was occupied entirely by the flickering strands of the northern lights.

"Do you remember the first time you saw them? The lights I mean." Jospon watched the lieutenant's face, fancying that he could see some of the strange glow reflected in the shine of his eyes.

Little's brow creased thoughtfully, his mouth quirking to the side. "Yes, yes, I...I remember thinking I had never before seen such a singular shade of green. Not even in a painting. Or in a dream." He looked Jopson in the eye, with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. "Not until now."

At a loss for words, Jopson slowly took Little's hand where it lay on his knee and held it in both of his own, gently pulling it to his mouth to warm it in a cloud of breath. Entranced, Little extended just one finger to brush across the pink seam of Jopson's lips. From the single point of contact, the man's skin felt as heated as a furnace, a heat that sank deep into Jopson's chest, blooming there like a flower until he felt immune to the chill of the wind whipping around them.

"Thomas," said Little, seemingly struggling to form the word. "We...we both know what's to come. I'm certain we won't set off at least for another few days. Plans need to be made, supplies packed. Promise me you'll conserve your strength, and sleep as well and long as you can at night, for soon we won't have the luxury of our berths. Anything you can do to prepare yourself." He moved his other hand to Jopson's jaw, stroking reverently with his thumb.

"We've followed our captain, you and I, here to the absolute ends of the earth, and I have no doubt in my mind, that he will lead us safely home. I have faith in his leadership. And in yours, Edward. I do not think I could be in better hands."

Little nodded, biting his lip, and gazed out at the green expanse of light once more. Their fingers were still entwined, now laid on Jopson's knee.

"I do hope you've enjoyed some of the carnivale," said Little, after a stretch of silence, "Regardless of our approaching circumstances."

"More than you could imagine. Well..."

"Yes?" Little inquired, quirking an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't have refused a turn in the warm bath--with you by my side, of course. It did look inviting, even if it might be unbecoming of the first lieutenant, and the captain's steward, to sit and roast in a giant stew."

Little let out a sharp bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Mr. Jopson, you are utterly incorrigible."

"Speaking of my incorrigibility...if we only have a few more nights to pass on the ship, perhaps we might both find need to retrieve something from the captain's storeroom some evening."

Little looked as if he had the wind knocked out of him. "Then...if that situation were to arise, it would be...unavoidable that we would be in each other's company. Not just unavoidable, but quite welcome, in fact." He couldn't help but wet his dry lips with the drag of his tongue.

Jopson beamed, his visage the perfect image of innocence. It was a wonder Little thought of him as an angel.

The wind seemed to pick up the, and they huddled even closer together on the crate.

"We'll be needing to go back inside, soon."

"I know, but I'd like to stay just a moment longer," said Jopson. In truth he wanted to sit there for an eternity. From inside the tent they could hear the music shift from one song to the next, a shanty of which any Navy man would be familiar. Faintly, they could discern a chorus of men's voices, slow and slurred but still strong in unison.

_"Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies,_  
_Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain;_  
_For we have received orders to sail to old England,_  
_But we hope in a short time to see you again..."_

Jopson laid his head on Little's shoulder. He could feel the low rumble of his beloved's voice, as Edward joined in with the next verse.

_"We'll rant and we'll roar, like true British sailors,_  
_We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas;_  
_Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England,_  
_From Ushant to Scilly...'tis thirty-five leagues."_

The rays of the season's first sun were beginning to peek over the horizon. They were going home.


End file.
